The Greenwood King
by tauriel-elfmaid
Summary: As the Elvenking Thranduil begins his reign, he is haunted by his father's death and the shadow of Mordor. Darkness begins to gather around his realm, threatening everything that he still holds dear. Will contain not-very-graphic violence, a few corpses and mentions of orc cannibalism.
1. Chapter One - The New King

DISCLAIMER: I own a few of the side characters, but the important ones like Legolas, Thranduil and Oropher are not mine, and they belong to JRR Tolkien. I'm just playing in his sandbox.

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**CHAPTER ONE: The New King**

In silence they had left the bloodied fields of Mordor, and in silence they returned to the Greenwood.

The pale stones of the road shone faintly as the weary elves walked slowly through the forest. The sun had just set, and the first glimmers of starlight had begun to shine in the darkening sky. Normally the sight of the stars, the spring leaves and the familiar paths of home would have filled the Silvan elves with joy. But there was no joy that night.

Thranduil had never been so tired in his life. Elves rarely grew tired, and they were able to stave off fatigue for days if they needed to. But he felt it clinging to his bones like a poisonous weed. It was a tiredness of the spirit rather than the body, and sleep would not chase it away.

At times, he longed to sink to the mossy tree roots, and rest his head for a time. But he forced himself to keep walking at a brisk pace. This was no time for the other elves — for his people — to see him tired or weak. He kept his back straight and his face composed, and always walked before the others.

They followed him in silence, save for the occasional faint groan by one of the wounded. There were far too many of those — elves who walked with limps or cradling a wounded arm, with a blooded bandage wrapped around their bodies. Some had lost a hand or a leg. A few were carried in litters, though they gazed up at the stars through the veil of leaves. Mordor had ravaged them, and though they had eventually been victorious, the ruined land of stone and dust was not a place where they could easily regain their strength. They needed the Greenwood. They needed its light, its life, and its peace.

And they were the lucky ones. Thranduil had not been there when they first marched to war, but he had seen them before they began to fight. Nearly two-thirds of the Silvan Elves had been slain in the war, and those who survived were left with wounds of the spirit that would be slow to heal.

He let his hand drift down to the hilt of his sword. Days ago, it had been so caked in orc blood and dust that his fingers had stuck to it.

"My lord," Aglaron said from somewhere behind him.

Thranduil slowed and glanced over his shoulder. "Yes?" he said in a low voice.

"It might be better if we went — a little more slowly," Aglaron said hesitantly. "Some are finding it difficult to keep up."

Thranduil slowed his pace slightly. Aglaron seemed ill at ease around his new king — which didn't surprise Thranduil. The younger elf had probably not even been born when Thranduil last saw the Greenwood, and had only heard stories about their great Sindarin king's son. Now the king was slain, and he was serving a stranger.

"I only wish to bring them home," Thranduil replied quietly.

"We _are_ home, my lord," Aglaron said just as quietly.

Thranduil said nothing, but bowed his head and moved on in silence.

The last light of the sun faded, letting the sky settle into darkness. The moon hung low over the horizon, surrounded by stars bright enough to light their way. The wounded elves began to walk more quickly, and whispers began to flit between them.

The path wound down into a secluded valley, between thick trees that had been planted and cultivated to hide the hall of the Elvenking from outsiders. Those who knew little of the Greenwood's ways would be lost if there was no one to guide them, especially in the night when the shadows clustered around them. But Thranduil remembered the paths, and his feet followed them.

Suddenly the way cleared, revealing a narrow stone bridge that curved above the white-foamed river, before coming to rest before the wide-open gates, with their stone pillars entwined in ivy. Pale starlight shone from the lanterns that the guards held high, and the faint sound of singing voices filled the air.

A raven-haired Elf stood by the gates, dressed in a long robe of leaf-green. He bowed deeply as Thranduil crossed the bridge.

"Welcome, my lord Thranduil," he said.

Thranduil inclined his head slightly. "Timdîr," he said with a faint, weary smile. "It's been a long time."

"Since your father built the Halls," Timdîr said, "and you set forth for the court of Doriath. We have heard of you from time to time, but too rarely."

He glanced over Thranduil's shoulder eagerly, seeing the dark heads of the Wood-Elves shining in the moonlight. They filed slowly over the bridge, passing the guards, and vanished into the darkness of the Halls. Thranduil felt a twinge of pity for Timdîr.

"And the king?" Timdîr said at last. "Is he to follow you?"

Thranduil's eyes flickered to the ground for a moment, before he straightened and drew back his shoulders. "My father was slain in the battle against the armies of Mordor," he said quietly.

For a moment, Timdîr didn't seem to understand what Thranduil was saying. Then his eyes widened in shock. "The king… is dead?" he whispered. "How?"

Thranduil strode past him, and into the darkened halls. Two of the guards broke from the gate and followed him, their faces hidden behind golden mail. He was momentarily grateful for the impassive silence that they surrounded him with, no matter what they were thinking or feeling.

He couldn't blame Timdîr for reacting as he had. The Wood-Elves had followed his father faithfully for an age of the world, and in turn he had built a small but strong kingdom amidst the beauty of the Greenwood. It was hard to even imagine this place without the Elvenking upon his throne. It had been King Oropher's pride and joy, and he had loved his people fiercely.

But now he was gone.

Thranduil's steps faltered, and for a moment he stood silent in the hall. He had never thought about what would happen if Oropher were to die. He was his father's only heir, but it meant something different to Elves than it did to mortals. To mortals, an heir was there to take his father's place when the father died. Death was an inevitability for them, and their children were needed to take their place when it came.

But it wasn't so for Elves. An Elf prince might live for countless thousands of years, and never take his father's throne. An Elf king might rule until the world crumbled away, and never abandon his kingdom.

Thranduil had never even entertained the thought of his father's death. Oropher had been a fearsome warrior and a wise king, building his halls deep within the earth so that none could enter unless he wished it. His Halls had been filled with armed guards and vigilant sentries, and he always had eyes watching their borders lest an enemy try to invade. Even when he set out across Mordor, facing down an army of orcs, Thranduil had never expected him to die.

But he had died. And now Thranduil was king.

He sighed, and passed a hand over his face. If he had ever known that this might happen, he never would have spent so long wandering through Doriath's courts and Lindon's forests. They had been a luxury of his belief that he would never be king, and thus his life was all his own. He was a stranger to many of the Wood-Elves — someone they knew of but did not know.

Suddenly a faint white light broke through the darkness. Timdîr appeared behind him, holding a lantern. "My lor—my king," he said quietly. "Please forgive me for my lack of manners."

"Think nothing of it," Thranduil said.

Timdîr seemed relieved, but it took a moment before he spoke again. "What would you have us do, my king?"

"Food and wine for the wounded. They have marched longer and harder than any should have to after a battle. And many of them need rest and healing."

"It shall be done as you wish," Timdîr said, bowing his head slightly.

"As for myself…" Thranduil drew a shaky breath. "I only want rest and solitude."

"If you would come with me, I will show you to your rooms."

_End of Chapter One_


	2. Chapter 2 - Shadow and Silence

DISCLAIMER: I own a few of the side characters, but the important ones like Legolas, Thranduil and Oropher are not mine, and they belong to JRR Tolkien. I'm just playing in his sandbox.

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**CHAPTER TWO: Silence and Shadow**

They led him through the Halls to the king's private chambers. Though the Elvenking's Halls were buried deep within the side of a mountain, Oropher had sculpted them into the very image of a forest — tall stone pillars rose to the ceilings like the trunks of old trees, narrow stone bridges curved over waterfalls and streams that flowed easily through the Wood-Elves' domain. The place seemed locked in perpetual twilight, with only warm lanterns and the faint glow of starlight shining through far-off windows to illuminate their way.

Thranduil glanced around as he followed Timdîr and the guards. He had been here before, when Oropher had first been made king of the Greenwood. But it had still been new then, and many of the details had not been finished — the delicate carvings in stone, the many twisting staircases that vanished into the dark, and so on. And it seemed larger than he remembered. Perhaps the Wood-Elves, under his father's guidance, had made the city larger.

But despite the faint glow of starlight and the tree-like pillars, the place felt… strange. Thranduil had spent centuries in other Elven kingdoms — and though the Halls of Menegroth had carved within a cliffside, they had somehow felt lighter and safer. Then Thingol had been brutally slain by the Dwarves — something that Thranduil had never forgotten — and the heart of Doriath had faded away. In Lindon, he had wandered under starlight, moonlight and sunlight, dwelling in the woodlands without a care.

But, he reminded himself, this was the realm of the Wood-Elves. Strange as it was to him, this was now his home. And his responsibility.

Timdîr suddenly turned to the right, through a high arch entwined with stone vines. "Here, my lo—my king," he said.

Thranduil stepped through the arch, and looked around. His father's chambers — for that is what they were — had high vaulted ceilings, with pillars shaped like thick branching trees and walls of rough stone. Small tables of twisted iron had been placed around the room, and candles burned upon them to illuminate the room. In a small alcove, a wide bed had been arranged under a pale lantern, meant to mimick starlight.

Thranduil looked around the room, keeping his face impassive. Inwardly, he felt a quake of grief. These had been his father's rooms until today, and there were little hints of Oropher's lingering presence — a silvery garment draped over a thronelike chair, a book with a dried leaf holding its place, a letter half-written upon a writing desk. It was as if the king had simply stepped out, and would be returning any moment now.

But he turned back to Timdîr and the guards. "Thank you," he said somewhat awkwardly. "I would be alone now."

Timdîr nodded and quickly darted back the way he had come. The guards bowed slightly before following him,

Thranduil did not move or speak until their footsteps had faded into silence. Then he allowed himself to sink into the nearest chair, resting his face in his hands.

He was tired, more tired than he had ever been in his long life_. _There was a certain relief in returning to the place where he now belonged, and knowing that the broken fragments of the Silvan army were now being healed and allowed to rest. But now that he was alone, he felt himself crumbling.

Someone had placed a crystal decanter of wine on the desk, along with a small plate of bread and roasted pheasant and a large silver basin and pitcher. Though he wanted nothing but sleep now, Thranduil moved to the desk and quietly ate and drank. He tasted none of it — all he could think of was the lembas bread that he had been subsisting on for months, and how the dust and grime of Mordor had seemed to make its way into everything.

Then he stripped off his worn grey tunic, and poured some of the water into the basin. Water had been hard to find in Mordor — the few streams and springs were so fouled that many Elves and Men had gone without rather than risk poisoning themselves.

His hand trembled, and he quickly set the pitcher down. Elves rarely needed to bathe, except for pleasure, but Thranduil had found himself longing for it in the months he had fought. But there had been only one day when he truly needed it — after his father had died.

When he had walked off the battlefield, he had been soaked in orc blood. It stained his armor, dripped from his clothes, turned his golden hair black. He knew it was only in his mind, but he felt as though it was burning his skin wherever it touched him.

The only springs nearby reeked of sulfur. The ponds were brackish, and he thought he saw foul things swimming in their depths. But on the borders of Ithilien, near a scrubby forest that had not been touched by Mordor's filth, the Wood-Elves had found a river of fresh water. He had sat in the river for a whole night in the moonlight, soaking away the flaking blood from his hair and body. Even then, it was days before he stopped feeling unclean.

Something rustled in the nearby hall. Thranduil looked up sharply.

"Who is there?" he called.

"Only I," said a familiar voice.

Timdîr stepped out of the shadows, looking slightly ashamed at being caught lurking nearby.

"I brought these for you, Lord Thranduil," he said, holding out a folded mass of cloth.

Thranduil stared down for a moment, then took the robes. It was spun of glittering silver, with a mithril brooch set with a white stone.

"They belonged to your father," Timdîr said quietly. "I thought that it would be best for you to wear them now."

Thranduil slipped the robe around himself, and fastened the brooch below his throat. Without meaning to, he straightened and drew back his shoulders.

_End of Chapter Two_


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